


Under the Desk

by Nwar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Criminal stuff, Getting off on violence, Other, blowjob, blowjob under desk, sex and murder, typical jim moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 08:22:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19787005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nwar/pseuds/Nwar
Summary: Daddy's had enough now





	Under the Desk

**Author's Note:**

> Bruh I... I don't have anything to say for myself.

You’re on your knees under the desk that he rarely uses. It’s dark, close, all you can smell is his heady scent, all you can see-- if you cared to open your eyes-- would be the pale skin of his lower abdomen and the tails of his Westwood shirt. Your hands are incapacitated; neatly pressed to the leather chair office chair beneath his expensively clad thighs. Above all, though, you can hear him. His lilting, commanding, unassuming voice, now instructing his favorite hitman-- Moran.  
“Mister Carter, you have made a very big mistake in crossing me. I think I ought to put that on business cards: ‘Jim Moriarty-- cross me, cross yourself’.” Above you, Jim does the catholic motion of crossing oneself, ending by lightly touching the back of your head. You carefully, slowly, pull him further into your mouth, his cock touching the very back of your mouth. When your gag reflex causes your throat to flutter, you feel his leg twitch against your ear.  
Your naked knees, where they are pressed against Jim’s thick carpeting, are starting to burn from pressure. Muffled through the expensive wood of the desk, you hear the man begging for his life. You shift slightly, you’re so aroused, it’s almost impossible to resist the urge to grind against the air.  
“Moran, sweetest, kindly put a bullet through this idiot.” Jim’s fingers thread through your hair as he says this. He presses on your skull, and since your hands are trapped between his legs and the chair, you have no choice but to comply.  
Your nose is pressed into his skin, his cock now so far down your throat that you can’t breathe. You hear the gun cock.  
Jim uses his index finger to stroke himself through the skin of your cheek. Your lungs are beginning to burn.  
The gun fires. There is a dull thud of the body hitting the floor, and then-- the hiss above you, the pressure on your hands as he shifts in the seat, and you are swallowing everything he gives you.


End file.
